


My Beloved Girl

by wilhelms



Category: Unsere Mütter unsere Väter | Generation War
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 23:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilhelms/pseuds/wilhelms
Summary: Just a one shot about Wilhelm trying to write Charly a letter.





	My Beloved Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving this a chance. Excuse all my grammatical and stylistic mistakes.

In a normal state of mind, he would wonder how could he end up like this. His clothes strapped of any honours, of any indications that he was once important, respected and dare he say successful. Successful in that machinery of misery, death and suffering. Was it really such a bad thing to lose? Suddenly, his body eased. He calmed himself down, he could strengthen his legs a little and move his toes. Writing helped his fingers not to freeze but he forgot about his toes. He had to move. Moving, breathing, walking, doing what he was told was the key to survival. He had to do what he did best, be a good soldier. 

Life is Strafbattalion was meant to make you want to die and it definitely served its purpose perfectly. Wilhelm accepted it. Somehow. He taught his body to react to certain actions. While being beaten he would immediately cover the most vulnerable areas, his head, his genitals, he would be quick to fall on the floor, child position, giving in his livers to beating. While being yelled his face would be cold, no expression. After all, his father prepared him for this. Years of beating and yelling at home were now quite useful. If only he could teach his heart to forget. 

His fingers were shaking. He was writing his words on the pages of the old newspapers. Little it mattered that his words were lost in the mixture of Russian Cyrillic alphabet. He knew he would never send them. He simply wished he could say them. He wanted to yell them from here, from Russia with love, from Ukraine or Poland or wherever he was. He could be at the end of the world and he would not know. Everything was the same. He wrote to them. To his mother, his brother, his Charly, his friend Viktor, his friend Greta. He wrote the letters of apologies, the letters of love, of confessions. He cried in them, begged them, laughed and remembered the better times, promised himself and them to get better. 

He could only dream about meeting them again, one day.


End file.
